


Must Be Protected At All Costs

by RussianWitch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Drunken Confessions, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Prompt Fic, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 15:32:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12987063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: There was this prompt on the AO3 writing group.Person A: "You're so cute. Just so cute, you must be protected at all costs."Person B: "I'm a trained assassin."So...I adapted it to POI





	Must Be Protected At All Costs

**Author's Note:**

> not beta'd

For once, the first indication of Rees's arrival isn't a fresh cup of coffee appearing at Harold's elbow, it's the slamming of the outer door that echoes through the empty hall and stomping on the stairs. 

Reese sways as he rounds the corner, unusually loose-limbed and almost—smiling. 

"Mr. Reese?" He asks, not quite sure how to phrase the question 'why do you look so happy?'. Whatever the reason, Harold doesn't want to spoil it by questioning, knowing how little happiness Reese has had through the years. 

"Harold!" Reese exclaims happily, lurching over to loom good naturally over Harold's chair, "you're here!"  

"Where else would I be?" He asks, bewildered by the whole situation. 

"Wherever you go when you're not here...," John trails off, raising his hand abruptly to trail it through Harold's hair. "Spiky!" He judges happily, doing it again, despite Harold's displeased squawk of, "Mr. Reese, are you drunk?"  

"The number was at a bar—we got talking..." He bends over, until they are face to face and Harold can smell the alcohol on Reese's breath, "he's—he needs a friend and—or, maybe he just needed someone who'd listen—" which, they haven't had before, but may be a plausible solution if the number is the perpetrator, Harold thinks, wondering at the consequences,"—you're cute!" 

"I beg your pardon?" He blinks, cursing himself for getting distracted while Reese was still talking. 

"You are cute," Reese repeats slowly, cupping Harold's face before he manages to protest, "and good, and smart, and must be protected at all costs!" He leans in, alcohol fumes, sandalwood, and gun oil teasing at Harold's nostrils, Reese's eyes are soft and bright—dangerously exposed, all the feelings Reese, /John/ keeps locked up under normal circumstances spilling out, so utterly wrong in his beliefs regarding Harold's goodness. 

"John, you're intoxicated," he makes himself say, ignoring how close John is, how easy it would be to close the gap and taste..."—and I am far less good than you imagine me to be." He whispers the confession, every cell of his being longing to close the gap between them. 

John pulls back, frowning at him, or possibly just because he's gotten a crick in his neck. Intoxicated, he's somewhat harder to anticipate than usual, the variables changing into new configurations.  

"Show me!" He finally demands, hoarse, and urgent, sparking something that burns across Harold's skin settling hot and heavy in his gut. The intensity takes Harold's breath away and makes him dig his fingers into the arms of his chair to keep himself from reaching out. 

It would be so easy, with John wanting and vulnerable, all Harold would have to do is reach out, hook his fingers in John's belt and pull him close again. John would let him, silent and pliant. He would obediently step closer, but perhaps John would take a sharp breath when Harold undoes his belt. If Harold got lucky, John would moan for him, after Harold unbuttoned his shirt and nuzzled at his abdomen, or maybe later when Harold has him spread out on a bed where he can touch John all over until John spills for him. After, he could fall asleep with John warm and satisfied against his back and wake up in the morning knowing there is someone else there.  

He hadn't needed that presence for a large part of his life, Grace had taught him to enjoy it, had left him longing for its return after he chose to keep her safe. 

"Harold!" John whispers urgently, reminding Harold that he's still waiting, hovering awkwardly. 

"Come with me," he says instead of answering, gently pushing John aside to get up. John barely moves, only his eyes follow Harold as he straightens, adjusting his vest, "please." He adds awkwardly. 

The sofa John had dragged into the room they use not long after he'd started working for Harold is an ancient monstrosity that's barely soft enough to sit on. John has slept in worse places, Harold figures, settling down on it as best he can. 

"You need to sleep off your intoxication," Harold says, tugging John down, prodding and pulling until he has the former soldier stretched out along most of the couch, his head resting on Harold's good thigh. 

"Harold?" John asks again, looking up at him in confusion. 

"When you're sober, Mr. Reese," Harold says, running his hand through John's hair, "ask me again, when you are sober." 

John blinks up at him, slower and slower until he turns over with a hum, burying his face against Harold's belly.  

He should have brought a book, Harold thinks since John might be sleeping for a while. 

Fortunately, he has his favorites memorized.


End file.
